Dark Lord
by Altra
Summary: Well, Volde isn't really in here. A Slytherin POV, but the Slytherin goes nameless and it's not Draco. Ramblings about the Unforgivables and Dumbledore.


Dark Lord  
by Altra  
  
  
  
--Dressed in Bishop's robes  
Terrifies me still  
In Bishop's robes--  
  
  
  
I guess you could call me a bastard. My mother never caught my father's name, she claimed that it did not matter. My step-father has tried as best he can to fill the void left by my biological father; but he can't. I hate my father. I hate him.  
  
I guess you could say that I fear Professor Dumbledore. Why, if only he knew what was in that bottle in my trunk. All of us Slytherins are scared of Dumbledore. If he was to discover our "dirty laundry", I guess you could call it, we would be thrown out of school. And why? Because we do not believe what he preaches, this Headmaster of ours.  
  
  
  
--Bastard Headmaster  
I'm not going back  
I'm not going back  
I'm not going back--  
  
  
  
Our Common Room is not a place of fun and friends, what with the secrets we hold. Though most see no need for the Dark Arts, we can do nothing but express our amazement. Throughout my life, I have been taught that the Arts are evil, to be left alone and shunned. All of us Hogwarts students have been taught it.  
  
But they lie.  
  
They lie through their magically straightened teeth, hidden behind their designer 100 Galleon robes. The lying scum that preach the horrors of the Arts, practice them in their free time. The Aurors, a symbol of "peace and protection" are allowed to use the Unforgivables. They laugh at the anguish of criminals, opening a hundred cuts along the body, causing skin to peel back from fingers.  
  
And they tell me this is right.  
  
They tell me that as long as I work for the "good" side, that the Arts are no longer Dark, that they are just a few more curses. They tell me that I should want to use these curses on common criminals, that I should enjoy it. That it is good. The other Houses cherish the Aurors. Worship the ground they walk on. Lick their mud covered boots.  
  
But we know better. We know the truth.  
  
I guess you could say that we have seen the light.  
  
  
  
--Children taught to kill  
To tear themselves to bits  
On playing fields--  
  
  
  
Draco is a mere shadow of his former self right now. Every time we play a game, the world is against him, he is the common enemy. They don't know him like we know him. The Gryffindors see him as a spoiled jerk, never trying and coasting through life.  
  
I guess you could say that is somewhat true. Oh yes, the brooms his father donated to the team did help him get on the team, but he can fly. And every day he puts his all out, always trying to beat the opposition. It hurts us all to watch him be defeated, crushed by an in-born talent. He knows that he will never, ever, beat Potter, but he tries. They say you should pick your battles, but to a Slytherin, that means nothing. Every battle is yours, whether you win or lose.  
  
However, none of us were ever intended for the Quidditch Pitch.  
  
We were raised to kill, Dumbldore. All of us, of every House, blood type, and skill.  
  
I must say, thank-you Dumbledore. Thank-you for screwing up thousands of lives. It makes my life so much easier.  
  
  
  
--Dressed in Bishop's robes  
I'm not going back  
I'm not going back  
I'm not going back--  
  
  
  
You have taught me that killing is right, Dumbledore. That the ideals of pacifists are mere fiction. You have told me that I can get paid, and paid well, for killing; that the blood of thousands is what my leader desires.  
  
Years from now, when I am one of you, I guess, my dear Headmaster, that you will wonder what became of the Slytherin bastard. Of all the Slytherins. You will wonder why we did not join Voldemort.  
  
Because you said so. Because you offered the exact same thing as Voldemort, but with protection. And money. Lots of money.   
  
But you never did understand Slytherins. We have only three choices in life; join Voldemort and be killed by the Aurors, refuse Voldemort and you and be killed, and join you and live for many years. You never did understand how a Slytherin's mind works. All or nothing. We cannot go halfway, we cannot be happy in middle-management. Between a long life, a short life, and death, we will chose a long life. Between profitable, right, and wrong, we will chose profitable. and you, Dumbledore, have managed to appeal to all three.  
  
I guess you could say that you are responsible for all the death that I can see in the future.   
  
I guess you could say that you are the Dark Lord.  
  
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A/N: "Bishop's Robes" belongs to Radiohead, and everything in this fic belongs to JK Rowling.  
  



End file.
